


dragon pulse

by pheenick



Series: Zine Fics [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Ruby & Sapphire & Emerald | Pokemon Ruby Sapphire Emerald Versions
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Pokemon Trainers, Small Towns, Worldbuilding, myths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheenick/pseuds/pheenick
Summary: Mornings now begin with a song. A single voice echoing out in long, sustained phrases just below the cloudline. It sweeps over Fallarbor, trickling through sparse canopies and rippling across the mountain lakes and ponds. It’s never for long and never truly loud, but it’s always there, heralding the first burst of sunlight over the terracotta steps.Or,  small town story about dragons, myth and discovery.
Series: Zine Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601443
Kudos: 1





	dragon pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Here Be Dragons Zine](https://twitter.com/dragonszine).

Mornings now begin with a song. A single voice echoing out in long, sustained phrases just below the cloudline. It sweeps over Fallarbor, trickling through sparse canopies and rippling across the mountain lakes and ponds. It’s never for long and never truly loud, but it’s always there, heralding the first burst of sunlight over the terracotta steps.

Quill wakes up early just to hear it. Runs down to the edge of the water where it’s louder and leans over the rippling waves.

The first time they see her— _properly_ , not just in fleeting glimpses of blue feathers—they’re helping Lanette declutter. Moving boxes from one corner to the other, breaking them down and packing them into flat stacks. Quill says, “You don’t see that often around here.”

“No, I suppose not,” Lanette says airly, not looking at them. She runs her hands along the edges of a box, feeling for the tape stretching across the top and pats her pockets. Quill hands her the boxcutter on her desk and she makes a noise of thanks, thumbing the wheel and sliding the blade through. “If I had to make a deduction—I’d posit that she was once a trainer’s. People release their pokémon from time to time. Sometimes it doesn’t work out between them.”

She turns her head. Busies herself with reaching in the box and takes out a Lotad doll, turning it this way and that. Analyzing. “Hm? How do I know?” She laughs, almost surprised at herself. “Well, it _is_ my system.”

Quill looks back through the window. Towards the tree outside, sitting on a lonely island in the middle of a lake.

“But why _stay_?”

“Who can say?” Lanette responds. “Perhaps she’s grown fond of the area. Living in spite of the odds is kind of the motto around here. It seems like the perfect place for someone like her.”

_Someone like her_ , Quill thinks. The thin, reedy song trails off. The lake holds her soft voice for a second longer in sympathy before relaxing into the usual foamy rush of falling water.

· · ·

It sticks with them after they come home. Their mothers cover the dining table with research and sketches of meteorites. Talking amongst themselves quietly. Fondly. Putting their observations to paper and staining their thumbs with graphite.

Quill watches, fingers clenching and unclenching. They ask for a sheet of paper and they’re given five and a pack of pencils. 

_You can be a scientist_ , Mama likes to say, kissing their cheeks and ruffling their hair. _Just like your Mama._

Mom tells them to pack extra clothes in case they fall in the water.

“I can swim,” they remind her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” she dismisses with a wave. Behind her, her wall of ribbons and badges seem to glisten. The fire flickers, painting them in warm orange shades. “Just take care and _remember_ : they’re still wild creatures. They won’t always do what you expect them to.”

· · ·

They spend the better part of their mornings sitting a responsible twenty paces away. They bring treats for Poochyena, curling up into his fur while he rumbles in content. Dawn breaks and the Old Man stops chattering when the singing starts.

Quill marks down the notes in their wobbly staff lines, tracing a line to follow the arpeggios up and back down. It pulls them in. Coaxes them to travel deeper and _deeper_.

_Who are you singing for?_ Quill wonders.

The leaves rustle, wind peaking through the cracks between branches. A long blue neck stretches above the foliage like a periscope investigating the area before the body rises up to the surface. Feathers fluff out, fading into grey clouds. Black beady eyes sweep out, stopping at their little party and regarding them with the same reservation as before.

Quill waves. 

Purple flashes in Altaria’s eyes, starting to twist up from her beak in pulsating circles of energy. It holds. _Lingers_. So does Quill, holding as still as they possibly can. Staring straight back at her, muscles locked and teeth bearing down. The air warps around her and spreads out in a frantic hum that lasts for an eternity before suddenly cutting out.

She flees.

She’s _gone_.

Quill puts down their hand and goes to sketch the long plumes streaming down from her head. The Old Man stutters back into breathing, one hand on his chest and the other on Poochyena’s fur, stroking down firmly.

“I think I preferred it when Poochyena roared at everyone who passed by,” he mutters. “He’s practically tame compared to her.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Quill says. They scratch behind Poochyena’s ears and he thumps his tail, leaning into the touch. “It’s how he says _hello_.”

“What about her?” The Old Man asks, pointing a crooked finger towards the tree. “What’s _she_ saying?”

“ _Don’t come closer,_ ” Quill answers evenly.

The Old Man looks at him. “You’re playing an interesting game, Quill. I never had your guts.”

“S’not about that,” Quill says. They look back towards the tree, the after-image of purple seared into their eyes. Almost. _Almost_. “I just need to know something.”

· · ·

Fallarbor is a town of gardeners and scholars. It’s always been a little weird. Mercurial in its lifestyle, but steady against the elements. The air likes to smell of sulphur. It chokes out most of their flowers and threatens to bury them all in ash and scrub their skin raw with grease. They keep a stiff upper lip through the worst of it. Spend their time building houses with bricks to withstand the hailstorm of rain and ruin.

Nowadays, people talk about the group moving up and down the mountains. Blue and red, boots scuffing the earth and trampling along the paths, sending dust raining down the steps. The town watches. They gather. They prepare.

· · ·

Marill greets them at the water’s edge. They played together a few years ago, splashing while their mothers sat on the bridge, legs swinging out and dressed in a bright red and softer pink against the blue.

“May I?” they ask politely, smiling when Marill squeaks and turns around. They gingerly dip into the water, finding purchase on her fur. Marill nods once to make sure they’re ready and then they’re surfing across the lake towards the island. 

The fog swallows them whole. Dissolving them into mist only two strokes in.

The swim is shorter than expected. Before they know it, their feet find the smooth stones of shore beneath them and Marill is nuzzling into their hand. Paws grasping onto their sleeve and tugging him back the other way.

_You should be a gardener_ , Lanette comments often. _You’re gentle and the locals love you_.

“Thank you,” they say, reaching into their bag and holding out a razz berry for her trouble “Come back later. I shouldn’t be too long.”

Marill gives them one final wave before diving back down into the lake and suddenly, Quill is alone. They look around, squeezing out water from their clothes. 

It's quiet.

The grass grows taller on the island. It’s barely large enough for a tree, nevermind the spidery knotwork of doors and tunnels carved into the wood and then deeper into dirt and stone. Abandoned bases. Dusty and old.

Quill makes their way as fast as they dare. Pushing aside the long blades just enough to pass through.

_Careful footsteps_ , Mom reminds them. She’s a city scholar, but everyone knows the rules they learned as children. The rock may be thick, but the caves are numerous and fossilized legends have been known to be found in shallow graves. _Make some noise. Not too much, not too little. Enough to be noticed and no more. Don’t be nimble or quick, heavy or slow. Walk tall, but keep your ears sharp and your reactions sharper_.

The deeper they go, the more the fog starts to crystalize into ice in their throat. Their hands find the heavy trunk. Scratching against the wood, loud and magnified in the cave of vegetation the middle of an ashy sea.

It’s quiet.

Quill turns around to explore some more and grey clouds suddenly swarm his vision. Knotted blue blots out the sun, layers of almond-shaped feathers like patterned scales. Her eyes glitter, violet thundering up from their depths and fizzling brightly.

Their breath catches. Eyes as wide as hers are narrowed. 

“Hi,” Quill squeaks, not entirely meaning too. The feathers _sharpen_ , poking out in jagged fans. Altaria stalks closer, peering into them. Purple motes hover uncertainly in the air by their ivory beak. Alien and mesmerizing.

_They’re still wild creatures_ , Quill thinks to themself. They’ve seen Marills and Surskits surfing across the water. Lotads and Seedots wandering through the lush fields outside Lanette’s dolls as she stacked her shelves full of their image. Nuzleafs chirp as they waddle under the clouds and through the grass, the charcoal bodies of Sevipers slithering through in a susurrus coil.

Nothing like this. Nothing like _her_.

Altaria. This close up, they can’t help but take her in. The matted swells. Unruly plumage barely wrestled into shape and the _ash_. She’s soaked in it, heavy and burdened. A scrap of fabric is tied around her ankle. Blue and white with a little symbol hidden in the folds and wrinkles.

“Um,” Quill manages. "I didn't mean to bother you. I just wanted to meet you." She huffs in warning, gathering the purple sparks again and letting the air _hum_. The fan of her tail feathers screams defensive. Her neck tight and gaze following their every move.

She doesn’t fire. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

_You don’t want to_ , Quill realizes with a jolt. _That’s why_. _You’re not going to—you **won’t**_. She tenses and her muscles flex. They start to move, heart leaping into their throat when the sky fills with violet sparks that trickle down and cast an ominous glow. They step towards the side, keeping their body turned towards her. Stepping back and then around, almost dancing around in a circle until their back is finally to the shore where Marill should be waiting.

Altaria lets them go. Watching until the grass starts to cover their body, shadows dragging deep and then they’re _gone_. Fled successfully away.

Quill scrambles back to the water, heart beating double fast and face flushed with _joy_.

· · ·

Quill has never seen a real dragon before.

Mama likes to read them all these stories about the beasts both big and small. Long, unfurling tapestries dipped in ink or drawn from thread and string. 

Chimney’s lungs heaved deeply once upon a time, its belly filling up with magma and throat bubbling with lighting. It was either a guardian or a destroyer—it never really mattered. The result was always the same. 

See: long ago, their town had sunk under rivers of fire and brimstone. It happened plenty of times. Enough to fill storybooks and history texts about different disasters and storms that raged through their little pocket of civilization. There would always be fire on land. Sometimes they could even rage in the sea and in the sky. In the hidden depths of cave systems and scarcely seen tombs of ancient creatures that still scuttled and shifted the earth with every step.

When the ground cooled over into rock, people wandered back. Again and again and again. They would survey the land before them and smile. Fall down to their knees as dragons bracketed the sky, digging their hands into the dirt once more.

Quill knocks on Lanette’s door and she only arcs a brow. The song whistles clearly in the mist.

“I want to be a trainer,” Quill says. _There’s so much I want to learn._ “Can you help me?”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Quill nods. “More than anything,” they say. “More than _anything_.”


End file.
